Beautiful Addiction
by SquishyHug
Summary: Warnings; Boy/Boy love and yummy action mention of suicide and dark themes. Sweet tender kisses and Soubi adoring Ritsuka. In his desperate time of need Ritsuka is cared for by Soubi. Can Soubi heal the mental and physical wounds of his little lover?


**Summary**: In his desperate time of need Ritsuka is cared for by Soubi. Can the Fighter heal both mental and physical wounds and keep his fragile lover safe?

**Warnings**: Boy/_Boy_ love and yummy action *winks* mention of suicide and dark themes. Sweet tender kisses and Soubi adoring Ritsuka.

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Addiction is brutally raw; it cuts at your mind like a razor blade to the wrist, it eats away your resolve and crumbles your determination – no one can resist the forceful lure of addiction. It creates an ersatz calm, blankets you so fully that the hurt of reality matters little.

Addiction is need, is a craving so strong you will do anything to sate the yearning; when addicted you are obsessed, caught in the tangles of painful wanting, of needful nostalgia.

Neurotic – broken – a young youth sits slumped against the bathroom cabinet; his neck aches from bowing his head; his chin rests against his chest; burning tears escape his eyes, beading on his dark eyelashes before trailing down his cheeks in wet, sobbing lines.

He is addicted – near obsessed with the pain of scarlet wounds that line his wrists. Drips of blood cling to his pale skin, marring it with imperfect beauty.

He is entranced by the slow weeping of crimson from each slash, he watches with curious, youthful innocence as his blood leaves the many wounds – dripping, trailing, and bleeding from his trembling body.

He doesn't cut for attention – he cuts to feel, to relieve his body and mind of its apathetic state of numbness. He just wants to feel _something_, anything, even if that something is pain.

His bottom lip quivers with the threat of tears, he bites it harshly; refusing to cry. Refusing to wish the stupid thought that maybe Soubi would come for a visit, would stop his suffering with serene, soothing words – it is a childish hope and one he banishes immediately.

He is alone, knees drawn up to his chest and back pressed hard against the white surface of the cabinet. The small razor blade is held deftly between his fingers, both razor and skin stained with scarlet smudges. The tiles, slick with blood, are a testament to his anguish.

One more cut, he thinks, taking a deep breath he extends his left arm; holding it out from his body, wrist pointing up – bloodied and slightly bruised. With his right hand he lowers the blade to his skin, touching the delicate flesh with the razor carefully; almost tenderly. His actions to come are anything but tender.

With one sweeping movement he slashes the razor blade downward harshly against his skin – down not across. A breath passes before the sting of feeling throbs from the open and bleeding wound. The cut is deep and Ritsuka watches with detached indifference as scarlet life rushes from the gash – escaping his torn vein so quickly, hastening for freedom with each pounding beat of his heart.

A sob – just one – tumbles over his gasping lips and enters the cold bathroom. Ritsuka closes his eyes tightly; the physical pain is distance, almost nonexistent, the emotional hurt is far more pronounced – beating at his mind so strongly the young boy pulls his knees into his chest and hugs his shins; would he seem insane is he were to rock to and fro?

It is the only thing he can do to ease the sharp stab of grief in his chest, to blunt the need to cut, to maim his soft skin. So he rocks his diminutive body, forward and backwards, refusing to let the stinging tears to fall upon his cheeks.

The razor blade is discarded on the tile floor, forgotten, his blood stains the ground, stains him, it is everywhere and still continues to weep from his deep abrasion. Ritsuka realizes that he should be afraid, that the swell of fear should be rising within his stomach – he is bleeding profusely, surely he should feel some emotion of distress?

Nothing, and so he sits curled in on his self; rocking his fragile body and whispering under his breath, one word, one name.

"Soubi."

His finger tips trace the cut on his wrist, the pain doesn't matter; numb is his fingers – cold with the bitter chill to the air. It shouldn't be so cold; no windows were open were they?

Ritsuka shifts his position, sniffling back a choking sob – his left arm is feeling heavy, it aches with a dull pounding; throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Footsteps sound from Ritsuka's adjoining bedroom.

"Ritsuka – where are you?"

Dark hair falls about the youth's cheeks as Ritsuka looks up sharply; the soft almost distant voice reaches him even through his aching reverie.

Forcing his weak body to move, Ritsuka crawls forward on hands and knees, a desperate need, a startlingly powerful _want_ to get to his fighter. His full lips are parted and deep, sobbing breaths leaves his lungs; his hands nearly claw at the titles to drag his protesting, wounded body.

A stifled groan of pain, nausea roils in his stomach and Ritsuka collapses on the floor, his small figure lax, his chest heaves with each intake of air and his fingers press into the cold titles.

"Soubi – Soubi." Ritsuka moans quietly; his pale cheek presses flush against the floor, wishing his voice would rise above a mere whisper.

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**Author Note**: Anyone want a second chapter?


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